


martyr wrapped in butcher paper

by towerofthegods



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Getting Together, King!George, M/M, Relationship Study, SMP-verse, god!dream, title from we will commit wolf murder by of montreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towerofthegods/pseuds/towerofthegods
Summary: There was a time before this, sitting perched on the waterlogged boards of oak splitting their house from the still lake, that George had told him, mouth cluttered with mirth: “To be with you, Dream.”“Oh, shut up.” Dream shoves him away with an elbow, fingertips sticky from his half-eaten peach. “That’s what you want most in the world? You’re such an idiot. I’m literally right here.”-or; dream and george reconcile the space between boy and god throughout the arcs of the SMP.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 461





	martyr wrapped in butcher paper

Dream lugs George through the marshes, soft as shadow.

This far into the bog the soil clumps under his boots, dragging at his heels, wet sticking noises littered amongst the scattered frog croaks -- generally, this kind of travel annoys him, too heavy, too cloying.

But Dream’s eyes cut down, and his temper is sated. A toadstool nestles above the curve of George’s ear, and Dream gently dislodges it with a lingering brush.

“Almost there, George,” he mumbles to no one, words curling at him hotly as they bounce off the back of his mask. Beside him, an egret uncharacteristically befriends a snake, head dipping into a bow, beak a nail-head to the wet earth. The snake understands but does not comprehend -- hunger before compassion. Springjaw, strangled cry, matted feathers in milky reds. 

Dream continues forward without looking, heel catching sharply on wing-bone.

George, he muses, won’t thank him -- even if he _does_ realize what Dream’s done. But Dream knows best in this, knows George prefers to avoid the hassle of conflict, knows that war incites loss that incites forced vulnerability. Knows George has architect hands, slim in the wrists and long-palmed, that could but shouldn’t hold a blade or an axe like him. Knows that even with George’s skill in archery, he wouldn’t know who to aim for when the lines are so muddied and blurred.

George won’t thank him, but he never does, Dream reasons. And Dream will give him empires, will gut bellies, just to see that softness in his eyes one more time, to hear his balloon-pop laugh. _Like the old days_ , they’ll both think, even when it’s nothing like that at all.

_(There was a time before this, sitting perched on the waterlogged boards of oak splitting their house from the still lake, that George had told him, mouth cluttered with mirth: “To be with_ you _, Dream.”_

_“Oh, shut up.” Dream shoves him away with an elbow, fingertips sticky from his half-eaten peach. “That’s what you want most in the world? You’re such an idiot. I’m literally right here.”_

_George bursts with laughter, knocking his shoulder into Dream’s roughly. “Maybe I just want it to stay that way. I need insurance.” He stresses this with the sly raise of his eyebrow. Dream rolls his eyes, unamused._

_“You don’t need insurance, George,” and it’s coming out too genuine, but it’s too late, the words spilling down his front and making ripples in the lakewater. “I’ll always be here. For you.”_

_It’s some weeks after that, when Dream stumbles from the pine forests, shuddering and broken open, spilling ichor instead of blood. Eyes wild, sharp, untamed and smeared. A god.)_

Dream picks a spot carefully, slipping beyond the willows to a drier patch framed by river birches, a fairy circle spiralling a few feet from the roots. Unbelievably gentle (especially to some, to the ones who hadn’t been there before all of _this_ , back when he left flushes instead of frostbite), he places George to the earth; as an afterthought, he tucks an old folded cloak beneath his head, fingers lingering at the base of his skull where his hair is soft and cut short. 

Beside George, an orchid lazily rises from the soil, a spray of vibrant blue against the muted neutrals of the marsh.

“Stop,” Dream hisses. “That’s so _obvious_ , stop.”

Unimpressed, it continues to grow, petals gleaming bright where the sun slices through the leaves. And right when it hits its peak, more flowers spring from the ground, pressing up from under George’s splayed palms.

“ _Ugh_!” Dream throws his arms into the air, annoyed.

It’s a side effect, he thinks, of things he doesn’t want to think about. Because this world -- it loves George. Blossoming alliums and hooked fish and sharp sunlight-framing. Bountiful fortune, insistent beauty prying for his attention. Power pressing in eagerly when Dream discretely puts George to sleep to cart him away to safety. 

This world loves George. It is, after all, Dream’s world.

In this patch of privacy, alone with a sleeping boy that pulls Dream along with embarrassing ease, a fragment of himself remembers its softness. With a gentle, tired sigh, Dream scoops up George’s hand, playing with the creases along the palm. 

“Heart line,” he mutters, thumbpad pressing insistently against the fracture. And then, with a tremor, he shoves his mask up a few inches, surface rubbing hard against his nose.

Quiet -- desperately, achingly quiet, so that even the river reeds will not notice, Dream brushes his mouth to the delicate skin of George’s hand before sharply pulling away.

“I’m still here, George.” He rises unsteadily, readjusting his mask with a firm hand. “Always, for you.”

The forest watches him go. George does not.

-

"You're boring me." The words collide hard and flat against the heel of his hand, pushing hard into his chin. Dream tilts his head, quizzical.

"Hm," heavy in his throat, dark like liquor. "Am I?" Sunlight floods in from the glass, slicing George into hard strips, blurring his body into the throne. His fingers drum once against the armrest, heavenly white.

"Yes." A silence fills the space, not expansive enough to burden the towering walls but enough to make Dream shift on his heels, miming discomfort. George considers him, eyes sharp. "I'm king now," he finally says, and Dream surely isn't projecting that subtle undercurrent of satisfaction, a dark bell-tone of his usual smugness. "What now, Dream?" A head tilt, emphasizing the hard line of his jaw, drawing attention to the line from ear to slender throat.

Safe behind his mask, Dream sees all of him and lingers there.

"It's a god's duty," he offers, shoulders rising in a languid shrug. "To choose a king." Simple and unhonest, like everything between him and George is not. The room is empty, besides all the pillars and glass and light, the two of them endlessly revolving around each other, and Dream feels suffocated. _So it begins, so it shall end._ George and himself in this world and everything that came after. Everything that came before and himself and George.

"Divine right," George mutters, like he's rolling it carefully around his mouth, like he's checking for switchblades. He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "That's not even what I asked."

Dream’s mouth tugs up, unbidden. His hands shift from hilt to behind his back, fingers remembering his own skin. “Well, George,” he starts, offering a mirrored head tilt of his own. “You’re king now. It’s whatever you command.”

George snorts, rolling his eyes and straightening a bit more from his perch. His fingertips slip down his face to rest in his lap; Dream rubs his own together, imagining the sensation. “And if I told you to kneel,” tone sardonic, weighed with disbelief. “What then, Dream?” A chasm divides them, god and man, past lingering at the door of once and future.

Without hesitation, Dream responds, “Then you would see how fast my knees can hit the floor.” And he almost does, just to prove it, just to be something honest for once and knock the distrust from George’s shoulders. To press a beating heart to George’s own ribs, to say, _I’m not gone yet. I’m still here._

But the second the words leave him mouth, he’s stiffening, hand reaching to readjust his mask. Silence creates a miniature flood, washing the pillars, drowning the dust motes, sticking Dream’s tongue to his teeth as his heart thrums in anxious recognition. George blinks at him, mouth slightly parted and struggling to produce noise, rendered to violent silence in the glowing glass atrium of the city.

“Dream,” he finally manages, voice scraping against the floor of his throat and catching on all the corners of his mouth. Almost imperceptibly, he leans forward, eyes dark and inescapable. “Kneel.”

“George,” he huffs, embarrassingly like a plea. Mind swirling with: _Don’t test the boundary, don’t rock the boat._ But George has never cared nor paid attention to the borders of countries, the boundaries of status. Insistent, he presses at the archway between them, a hearth against the birchwood. 

For a long moment, the throne room is jellied into stasis. Dream leashes his breath like an unruly hound.

Relaxing back into the throne, George’s tension releases, and the room empties with it. “Right,” he says, lined with disappointment. Dream clenches a fist, aching to chase the suffocating spotlight of George’s undivided attention. “Well then, Dream. You better go. Kingly duties to attend to.”

“Mm,” Dream hums, sticky in his throat. And with more sincerity this time, he says: “Am I boring you?”

George’s eyes slip to the stone brick, carving cracks into the floor. He scoffs, just a little, the imprint of a younger version of him in the way he wrinkles his nose. “No, Dream.” Heavy with frustration, not quite sour enough to be sarcasm. “You never do.”

Dream nods once, tight. He bows, low enough to feel blood rush hot into his ears, spine a curling apology. His boots blot the carpet to black. 

Without a goodbye, he slips silently into shadow, a whisper against the stone. Before his vision fizzles out completely, he notes George’s gaze firm on the window, hand once again propping his head in lazy disinterest.

Dream, selfishly, wonders what he sees.

-

In the dull hours of night, George beheads something wriggling with life between them. Hours later, Dream’s shadow hangs over his doorframe.

“Hi,” Dream says lamely, fingers twitching at his sides. He drags his hood down, antsy. “Can I come in?”  
  
George surveys him, unimpressed. “You don’t usually knock.” But he steps back, golden glow from a desk lantern eating away at the edges of his frame, turning a tense line in his shoulders deceptively soft. When the distance seems appropriate, Dream follows.

“Yeah,” he stutters, swallowing hard, throat cluttered with everything that remains unspoken and barred from mentioning between them. _Just say you hate me._ Mind a whirling record disc, flat and looping and coveted, an echo chamber of stilted conflict and George’s winding mouth. Did George know? Could he possibly? A thousands questions clamber for attention. He settles on: “Are you mad?”

It sounds pathetic, whiny when it hits the air to meet George’s cool scrutiny. Still, he can’t find it in himself to take it back, just fidgets with the hem of his jacket while he awaits Judgement Day. Jury and executioner caught carefully jarred into this cramped living room, Dream cutting an unimposing weeping willow as his neck hangs forward. Head stooped like a nail-head, and George’s spring-coil patience. 

“Unbelievably,” he breathes, and he sounds _exhausted_ . Gently, painfully so, George reaches forward, fingers prying and hesitant as he slides his palm around Dream’s wrist, bone a makeshift lilypad biting into the lake of George’s hand. _Architect’s hands_ , he recalls. To make a house, to make a home. To burn with grief. 

“I,” Dream’s voice catches, embarrassingly raw, still rough with the memory of promises that break open cities like oysters. A mouth that blackens air into walls that breach heaven itself. The voice of a boy when he says: “I didn’t think you would care.”  
  
George’s jaw clenches visibly, and Dream wonders what he holds back. Wonders which of them he protects in doing so. Wonders if he could press his thumb beneath George’s bottom lip and pry it out of him with intent. 

Finally, George says, “I care about more than you think.” Softly but insistently, he reels Dream further into the room and away from the entry, feet meeting the earthy carpet and leaving winding crescents where his heels meet the fibre. Helpless, Dream follows.

“But.” He swallows hard, thoughts a confusingly jumbled maze on his tongue, heart a heaving minotaur, George’s wristbones a lovely golden thread pressing him towards the couch. “It _bored_ you, George.” When George sits, Dream does not. He has a skyline view, when George’s eyes narrow.

“You’re such an idiot, Dream.” And it’s not fond, not gentle, not glowing with bottled nostalgia. Just hard and honest. Just hunting for impact. “As if that’s what this is about.” He releases Dream’s arm and casts his gaze elsewhere, heavy like a stone slate. 

Frustrated and tired and vulnerable, Dream throws his arms into the air. “Then care to enlighten me, George?” Dragging a hand through his hair, he retreats, boots insistent on the border of the rug. He feels dizzy with the dance of them, the one step forward, the two steps back. George’s hands in his, building homes into his body; George’s waist a parenthesis that make his own fingers a cloistered afterthought. “Do you miss your _crown_? Your cushy throne? Your power?”

“Dream,” George warns, knuckles turning white, eyes slicing back towards him. _Yes_ , Dream thinks in vicious satisfaction, _look at me_. 

“You think I don’t _know_ you,” Dream spits, hands flying wide. His mouth carving obsidian, again and again and again. “But I do -- like actually. You were bored. You didn’t want it at all--”  
  
“Then why did you give it to me, Dream?” George snarls, snapping up. He approaches without mercy, sharp with purpose. A shadow drapes across him, bathing his front with tar. “If you know me _so_ well. Were you really just looking for somewhere to stick me, for -- for some pat on the back? For some favor I’d have to repay later?”

“You have no idea,” Dream seethes, “how much I’ve done for you.” George’s weight in his arms, his gentle breath against Dream’s collar, the loll of his head into his shoulder. The green frogs and the river reeds that saw what he did, the sticky peach in his hand. The gutted bellies, the hot blood of the egret, George’s heart line cradled safely between his fingers. 

_("You’re joking,” George breathes, eyes wide. “It isn’t funny.”_

_“I’m not! I--” he cuts himself off, wincing at the ache of bones that feel too big in his skin. “Here,” he sighs when the pain has settled. George watches him cautiously. “It’s easier to just… here.”_

_Shaking slightly, he uncurls a hand between them, focusing on the skittering heartbeat and the rolling warmth George infuses him with; after a moment, a light sparks in the center of his palm, small but persistent._

_George hisses on an intake of breath, eyes glowing, face softly illuminated by the pulsating flush of yellows. “It’s…” He searches for a word, looking conflicted. Finally, he meets Dream’s gaze, wondrously breathless. “It’s_ bright _.”_

_And Dream, high on the thoughtless praise, dizzy with the curl of George’s mouth, grins, “A god, Georgie. The world is yours.”)_

“Then enlighten me, _Dream_ ,” George mocks, throwing his earlier words back at him. “If you know me so well -- what do I actually want?” He looks fierce, backed in the hot warmth of an oil lantern burning vindictively, cheeks simmering with anger. Outside, the night smears itself into morning, dawn making itself known in the suffusion of gold breaching the gap between horizon and sky. Inside, George seethes, eyes burning and breath labored, a metronome of frustration hissing from between his teeth.

“I,” Dream bites, trying to retreat but lacking the room to maneuver, yearning to advance but fearing the outcome. George unshakably close, mouth a cutlery drawer, a knife block; the space between them dark like dusk. Swallowing hard, Dream dislodges most of his temper, lets the barbs fall back into his stomach. 

Softly, weakly, he tries, “George.” Sounding shattered when it hits the air, a cracking pane of glass between them.

But George’s jaw sets, determined and frustrated. “ _Dream_.” He steps even closer, socks bumping into leather, close enough to radiate warmth. “Do you know what I want?” He repeats, voice dropping to a low murmur, breath hot.

Unconsciously, Dream’s hands rise, slipping to curl above George’s hip and beneath his ribs. And he remembers that time so long ago, when they were just two boys with the entire world cracked open and ripe before them, legs pressed into warm planks and shoulders bumping. Completely and utterly untouchable. A George giddy with emotions neither of them understand yet answers, _To be with you, Dream_ . _To be with you, Dream. To be with you, Dream_.

Shaken with realization, Dream’s eyes drip lower, mouth a muddled taffy. “I,” he stutters, head clouded with memories blurring to reality, past meeting present, with Dream meeting George somewhere in the middle.

“Mm,” George agrees, eyes rolling. His fingers create hooks in the fabric of Dream’s shirt. “Close enough, I suppose.” And then he’s winding him in, pushing himself up to meet Dream’s mouth, pliant and shocked and warm.

Dream squeezes, noise of surprise lost somewhere against the burning rhythm of George’s tongue, eyes fluttering shut and pressing _closer, closer, closer_. The roaring in his head turns molten, losing all sense around the time that George’s viper-mouth curls against his Adam’s apple. 

With every slide of Dream’s fingers, he stresses, _I’m here._ In the bruise on George’s collar, in the thumbprint on his waist. _Always, for you_.

Outside, the fields sprawls, bursting with orchids and alliums and peonies. Those who err on the poetic side of things acknowledge with wonderment: it’s as if the world itself is rejoicing.

**Author's Note:**

> to clarify, the scenes take place like: season one's major battle, george during his (short) reign, and post-dethroning.
> 
> thank you so much for the endless support i received when i posted a snippet of this on my tumblr. i wouldn't have finished this without you guys, and i hope u take it as my little gift to you.
> 
> come talk to me on my tumblr technoblacle !


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